


anomia; antipodes

by catalysticskies



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Amnesia, Ascension, Episode: s07e01 Fallen, Post-Ascension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalysticskies/pseuds/catalysticskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell him they found him in the outskirts of the city, tell him he must have fallen from the sky. They tell him a lot of things, and he has little else to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anomia; antipodes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most cliché thing ever, but I really like post-Ascension Daniel, and I’m disappointed that they didn’t play on it more in the actual show.

He wakes to whispers and firelight around him, figures of people above him blurring into view against the blank canvas of the tent, curious faces cast in flickering shadows by the couple of candles set on the floor beside him. He tries to voice his growing multitude of questions, takes the proffered water when he realises how dry his throat is, then tries again, asking how he got here and who they are and _what in the name_ , as a general query, _is going on here?_

One of their elders steps forth, introducing himself as Shamda, and begins to tell him; they had found him in the outskirts of the city ruins, dazed and confused and halfway conscious, and they brought him back here to try and find out more. He, unfortunately, knows even less than they do, no memories coming to him and no sense of self. He doesn’t know who he was or what he has done or how he came to be here, in such a state no less, and he tells them as much. At least they don’t seem to mind having an enigma in their midst; he finds that he has become something of an attraction in the short time he has been here, the tribe curious to find out his secrets and the kids crowding in to see the man who knows nothing. It feels comforting, at least, to know that he is welcome here.

They all give their names to him when he meets them, introducing themselves and each other with welcoming smiles. These he remembers just fine, but he still cannot remember his own. “Arrom,” they call him, and he cringes; he does not remember much of when they found him, but he does know that he was cold and damp and buck-naked in the dirt. He lets them give him this moniker regardless, because it is all he has.

They help nurse his body back to health, and then they try to help nurse his mind, but quickly find that there is little they can do; he can’t remember a thing, a bright white light and a woman’s gentle voice all he knows from before they found him in the ruins, and nothing more comes to him when he tries. They suppose it will have to remain a mystery for now.

There are many languages spoken among Vis Uban, and he finds that he can understand nearly all of them, some better than others. He doesn’t remember the names for these languages, but he remembers how they are written (the ones that have written form, at least), and he is thankful that there is at least something useful that has stayed with him. They teach him the ones he doesn’t already know, reinforce the ones he is not so good at, and in turn he teaches them more, writing in the dirt and with charcoal on the walls in so many languages he doesn’t have names for. There is one that stands out to him, the letters mostly simple and rounded, and while he feels most familiar with this one, he can only wonder where it is from.

He often dreams, fitfully and in vivid bursts of colour and sound, of large concrete tunnels and dusty old sandstone and shooting through the great vastness of space, whistles of giant metal birds and weapon fire in his ears (they have told him of the Jaffa, bearing staffs of lightning and the strength of several men, and he _knows_ he has seen them before). Sometimes the children will pester him for stories, and he will piece together fragments of these dreams to retell, giving accounts of daring rescues and epic battles and grand conquests of the galaxy, and they listen, wide-eyed and in awe, as he tries to figure out if any of it is true.

“You are good to them,” Geula says one day, gesturing to the flock of children now heading off for their chores. “Did you have one of your own?”

Arrom thinks of a young man, dark-skinned and streaked with sand, smiling with teeth like white jewels. “No,” he replies, “I don’t think so,” because it does not feel quite the same.

Sometimes they send groups through the Ring to do trade with other tribes, some in large cities or small villages or nomadic groups like their own, and he wonders what it is like seeing these distant places. The Ring fascinates him, the inscriptions on the outer circle instilling a sense of wonder and awe, like looking up at the night sky and pondering the vastness of space (which is not uncanny, considering he understands these symbols to be markers in the heavens). The first time he sees it open, the flush of water and the pool of vast blue light, he is sure that he has never seen something so beautiful, even before this.

“You wish to find out its secrets,” Shamda says to him once, standing in the grass beside him as they watch their trade party walk through, and all he can say is _yes_. “Perhaps there is a combination that will lead you home,” he wonders, glancing over to see the thoughtful downturn of Arrom’s lips. “Perhaps you have truly come from the stars. If you wish to search for your origin, we will support you.”

“What if I am searching forever?” Arrom asks, nervous at the thought of all the places the Ring could take him and how long it will take him to visit them all.

Shamda laughs, his old eyes lit by the precociousness of the young. “We are all searching forever,” he says, laying a hand on Arrom’s shoulder. “Do not let that daunt you. It is what we are searching _for_ that changes. If you wish to find your home, you will find it.”

Arrom smiles now, too, his eyes moving back to the Ring just as the blue light sinks back into its border. “I have found it,” he says, but he cannot help the nagging feeling that there is _more_.

They allow him to go with them for the next trade, one of the smaller parties for a quick single-day trip, and he is probably far less nervous than he should be. “You have done this before?” Keshet asks, waiting with him as the others step through the Ring.

He stands there, staring at the great pool of light as he has done so many times, the sight welling up in his gut and bubbling through his chest. “Yes,” he says, and gives one of the most sincere smiles he’s ever had. “It feels… safe, like I belong.”

Keshet grins, then pushes him through. It is only a quick second or two between Rings, but it feels like a lifetime, thousands of routes through space unfolding before him and place after place flickering to mind, open fields and bright pink trees and rocky mountains and underground cities, swirling by like he has spun around too fast and can only catch glimpses as he turns. He is not sure where the term ‘wormhole’ comes from, but he feels it is apt to describe the phenomenon, like burrowing through a fruit and leaving a clear path behind.

They trade with another tribe like theirs, nomads having taken residence for the season who are just as friendly and welcoming as their own. He has done this before, he knows, discussing items and equal trade and negotiating for the things they need, and finds that he is fairly skilled at the art, enough so that his tribe offers to make him part of many trade parties, and he is ecstatic to accept.

Many months pass for him there, but they seem to go by so quickly, between working in Vis Uban and travelling through the Ring, sometimes for days at a time. Shamda often jokes about his desire to see these worlds, giving him the nickname ‘Talib’ – _one who seeks_ , he remembers – and then he gives his own stories of the stars, fables he has heard of great gods descending from the heavens and bolts of light streaking across the sky, celestial myths from so many different cultures. Arrom is fascinated by every single one of them, listening intently and taking each to heart; he knows that stories such as these are important to him, and he has already lost so many.

Eventually the seasons begin to change and they begin to pack up for the year, moving to another place through the Ring to bypass the harsher months as they do every year. It’s a hectic time, pooling all their possessions together and hauling them through the Ring in the span of a week, but it is satisfying seeing their work pay off at the end of it all. It is the first time he has been a part of something like this (at least to his knowledge), but it still feels so familiar, the act of shifting supplies and equipment.

The day before they are set to leave for good, he dreams. It is one that has become typical to him, images of a large stone cavern (a tomb, he thinks, or some kind of temple) dusted with sand, but this time he turns and sees the Ring, its panel lit up with symbols, and he’s not sure if it’s outgoing or incoming until someone steps through behind him, two more people behind them, all indistinct but nigglingly familiar. He tries calling out to them, but his voice doesn’t work here, so he focuses on the symbols instead, hoping that they might lead him back to wherever this is and he can track them down in person.

“I remembered a place,” he tells the tribe over breakfast, and they watch in anticipation as he scrawls the symbols into the dirt beside him, six jagged markings that now burn hot in his mind, then sits back to let them see.

“Abydos,” Dassah says, her eyes browsing over the symbols. “I have been there before. They are a kind people. You have met them?”

_Abydos_. Something about that makes him a little queasy. “I… I think so, yes. Probably more than once.”

“Prepare some supplies,” Shamda says to Meirit, who darts off to do so as Shamda turns back to meet Arrom’s quizzical look. “We will send a couple of others with you. There is a chance that this may give you some clues to your origins.”

Arrom has little to say to that, so he simply says, “Thank you,” truly grateful for all they are doing for him.

Shamda clasps a hands to Arrom’s shoulder, and smiles. “Good luck, Talib.”

When they step through the Ring they are met only with desert, rolling dunes of sand lit hot and bright as far as he can see, nothing but the Ring and its panel for miles. He is not sure what he expected, but it was not this, and the overwhelming sadness he feels is mirrored in the faces of the few people with him, whispers passing between them in wonder of where they all could have gone, of what happened here. “I’m sorry, Arrom,” Geula says, “We do not know what became of them,” and Arrom can only weep for the people he no longer knows.

Their new world is just coming into spring when they move, the earth still hard beneath their feet but softening with the rise of the sun, the mornings still sharp and crisp in his lungs but warm and clear at the height of the day. He has another dream of what can only be his past, of moving crates similar to the ones they have now and setting up new sites, the same three figures standing before the Ring, but he does not pay heed to it now; he is still shaken from Abydos, reticent to try again and only be met with another horror like that. “There is a chance that another world may prove more fruitful,” Geula offers when he shares his thoughts, but Arrom is not so sure. Statistically speaking, the likelihood of every world he remembers having been destroyed since he last visited is slim, but there is the niggling feeling that he is somewhat responsible for Abydos, and he cannot bear to know more than that.

There is a place he visits that whispers of travellers they have never seen before, uniforms the colour of olive grass and short black staffs that crack fire like thunder in the air, and he feels drawn to these rumours the same way he is drawn to the figures in his dreams. Perhaps they are one and the same, he thinks, but he does not have time to go chasing them down even if he wanted to discover them. He has worked too hard leaving it behind to drift away from his tribe now.

The seasons in their new city are much shorter than in Vis Uban, but they are much more glorious, spring bringing flocks of brightly coloured birds and the trees turning a vibrant pink, the summer pleasantly warm and gentle on his back, until autumn comes and their palette turns to reds and browns and fog begins to roll in with the rise and fall of the sun, and they begin to move again. Arrom is among the first to scout out their new residence; there is something about being one of the first people to step out into the unknown that fills him with wonder, anticipation, a sense of glory and pride. He can feel the scout party stepping through beside him, and for some reason he thinks of the mark of a Jaffa, of pale blue eyes and an almost overwhelming sense of respect – he wonders, not for the first time, who he used to do this with.

Once they have deemed the landscape suitable, they begin with the move again, rebuilding their settlement on one of the hills that border the Ring. Now that he understands the process he is able to help more fluidly, knowing where things go and how to carry them and where to lend his aid, which he does almost in excess; he has been here for many months now, and he still does not feel that he has adequately repaid the debt he owes these people. He likely never will.

The best part of their new city, he thinks, is the stars. He has always watched them on many other worlds, but they seem clearest here, sitting atop open hills away from the settlement at night, the Ring visible below him and countless stars above. Shayma has taught him the names of some of them, the few she can recognise of all the different worlds, and he recalls some of these now, navigating his eyes across the vast expanse of space. Sometimes, when he looks at these constellations, he thinks of names that he does not remember learning here, names like _Orion_ and _Andromeda_ and _Cassiopeia_ , thinks of star systems hundreds of lightyears away, and he is always filled with a great sadness.

He is among one of their earliest trading parties to set out from this new city, travelling through the Ring to forge connections with their nearest neighbours (how they are able to identify what deems as _near_ or _far_ with use of the Ring, he is still unsure), a trip of several days and much negotiation and much more celebration. It is dark when they return, the pool of the Ring illuminating the path and the settlement up the hill, and the strange metal object sitting just beside the Ring’s panel. It is fairly large, more than half his height, with strange appendages and flat coriaceous wheels. He has seen these before, he knows, and he is not sure _how_ , but he understands it to mean _visitors_.

He has never been so nervous to approach their settlement before.

It is oddly quiet in the outskirts, but as they get nearer to the centre of the settlement they discover why; most of the residents have gathered for celebration, the bonfire lit and burning tall over the large open space set amidst their tents for just such an occasion. Arrom weaves his way through the crowd in search of Shamda, finding him in his tent at the edge of the circle, greeting him with questioning eyes. “Guests have come through the Ring,” Shamda tells him, “You must meet them,” and then he is being dragged back out into the smoke and the dancing and across to one of the larger common tents, the door pulled open and a spread of food across the table. He hears conversation inside, and something strange fills his gut, but he cannot place why as Shamda ushers him through.

There are four of them, dressed in simple clothes the colour of blue stone and chatting with a couple of his tribe, laughing over exotic foods and their willingness to try them. They glance up as the two of them enter, nodding to Shamda and their eyes passing over Arrom, but then they pass back and they all _stop dead_.

It feels almost perfectly silent, the sounds of celebration still loud from outside the tent but not seeming to penetrate here, four pairs of eyes all staring, wide-eyed in awe and shock and a great sadness, at Arrom. “Daniel?” the woman breathes, hair like sand and eyes like oceans, and he can only stare back as she rises shakily to her feet, the others following suit as she steps forward. “Oh, my god, _Daniel_. What– Is it really you?”

Arrom glances between the four of them, tears in some of their eyes and the barest hint of hope. He looks to Shamda for guidance, but finds none. “You are mistaken,” he tells them, “We have not yet met,” but they _have_ ; he remembers, vaguely, the gold mark scorn into the brow of whom he knows to be Jaffa, remembers how the woman’s hands felt against his, remembers the older man standing above him with his face lit by flickering weapon blasts, remembers the younger man shouting and _fire_ , burning pain and his blood like acid and his skin peeling from his flesh like the burnt shell of poultry. It takes him a moment to blink away the image of blinding white light.

“Daniel Jackson,” the Jaffa says, eyes narrowing in confusion, “Do you not remember us?” Arrom can only shake his head, desperately trying to think of something to say, some way to figure out what exactly is happening here.

Shamda thankfully steps in to explain while Arrom attempts to make sense of it all, informing them on his behalf of the fact that no, he does not remember anything (or at least not anything substantial), and has not since they found him. He notices that their uniforms have names embroidered on the shoulders, _O’Neill_ and _Carter_ and _Teal’c_ and _Quinn_ , and he feels more familiar with these names than his own, knows how they feel on his lips. They talk about things he does not understand but feels he should, throwing words like _Ascension_ and _Anubis_ and _Oma Desala_ , all of which he has heard before but cannot begin to fathom, until he feels overwhelmed by it all and steps out for fresh air, weaving between dwellings until he comes an open space away from the crowd, and he sits and breathes and looks at the stars until he feels a little less smothered.

Carter ( _sarahshanselenashiri_ , none of them sound right) follows him out a moment later, sinking to the grass beside him; the air gives away her intentions long before she opens her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she begins slowly, “For dropping this on you like that. It’s just… such a surprise to see you again, even if it’s not _you_ per se. I’m convinced that Daniel is still in there, somewhere.”

Arrom sighs, looking down as he runs his hands over the grass. Thick, green, moist with dew. It helps ground him while his mind whirls with the thought of discovering what has been. “What happened to him?” he asks her, “To Daniel?”

Of all things, it looks like she hadn’t expected the question. “It’s… complicated,” she breathes, then begins to explain, how he Ascended and how he fought a System Lord (the gods, he discovers, are not so powerful after all, but this one was the exception) and how he’d disappeared, how he’d _died_. She is on the verge of tears by the end of it, wiping moisture from her eyes as she tells him, “It’s been so long, and I just– I miss you so _much_. Even when you were Ascended, we knew you were out there somewhere, that you were happy with your choice, but this time we had no idea. We thought you’d died, that there wasn’t any chance this time. This last year has been hard, on all of us.”

Arrom has little idea of how to respond, what he should do in this situation. He thinks of the feeling he gets when watching the stars or studying languages writ into stone carvings or scratched out in the dirt, the awe and wonder and familiarity of stepping through the Ring, the ease with which he has spoken with her here. He thinks of Abydos, of the plumes of smoke and great battleships of his dreams, and then he thinks of _them_ , the four of them in long stone hallways and the Ring in its great square cavern.

“I could return with you,” he says slowly, and Carter’s head snaps up, eyes wide. He smiles at her. “Just to see what it was like, if I belong there.”

She beams, flat white teeth and gleaming with hope, and takes his hand in hers. “I hope you do,” she replies; he has the feeling that her hopes will probably be realised.


End file.
